Let me in
by agirlwithacoin
Summary: Later, much later, after his blood comes back under his control, Elijah will admit to himself, however uncharacteristic such an admittance is, that this was not at all how he had expected his night to go.


Rating: MCategory: SmutFandom: The Vampire DiariesPairing: Elena/ElijahSpoilers: Up to 3x15Warning: Smut.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I'm just borrowing it…

Later, much later, after his blood (and his body) comes back under his control, Elijah will admit to himself, however uncharacteristic such an admittance is, that this was not at all how he had expected his night to go. Elijah prided himself on being an intelligent man. He had the experience of life times at his disposal, not to mention an inherent common sense that his siblings (excluding Finn) seemed to lack in spades (It was improper English, but the extent of Niklaus' impulsivity made him believe that it was an apt description nonetheless). And yet, Elijah Mikaelson, eldest and most collected of the original vampires, consistently underestimated the machinations of one Elena Gillbert. There was a reason that she was his favorite doppleganger.

It started with an invitation. He knew, objectively, that it was meant as an olive branch. He also knew, that he was going to disappoint her; he is forever disappointing women with that face, but he can't seem to stop himself, and he knows with the conviction of 1,000 years of life that it is for the best that he leave. He had only intended to stay long enough to give her the letter; The letter that told her everything. Of his admiration for her. Of his regret. Of his need for understanding. The things that Elijah couldn't bring himself to say always came out best on paper.

He was surprised to see only a single car parked near the lake cabin; had assumed that she would be accompanied, though upon further contemplation, he has no idea why he had been so sure. It simply seems as if the lovely Elena Gillbert is forever surrounded by those that love her, and the fact that she had chosen to be alone with him, even after his betrayal makes this harder. The fact that she still trusts him enough is something that he simultaneously wants to cultivate and wants to quell, because he wants to call it foolish. Wants to, but can't quite make himself even THINK the words, in case her ephemeral forgiveness is withdrawn. He knows he can't ask for it. It can be given, but never demanded.

He steels himself, big hands traveling over the buttons of his pea coat, as he carefully navigates the steps up onto the porch. He feels the memory of dying all over again; he is old, but he doesn't know that he will ever quite forget the heady smell of her blood, the thrum of annoyance and upset, as she thrust a knife into her belly. The shock of her treachery. It was one of the first times he had underestimated her. He had certainly paid for it.

He knocks on the door, and even as she opens it, he's organizing his words, thinking of ways to frame what he's about to say, ways to make her understand, or at least accept that he truly wants to apologize, but the words fall out of his head, down his throat, and disappear as soon as the light from inside washes across the expanse of the porch.

To his chagrin, his breath hitches just a little bit. He is a vampire, a millennium old, and a man possessing of remarkable control, but he is still a man, and the first thing that strikes him as his eyes settle on Elena Gillbert, is that she has a lot of very olive, very smooth skin, and he wants to touch it. A smile curves her lips as she watches his Adam's apple move under his skin, but it is not Tatia's smile, because it is just for him, and it is not Katarina's because there is no guile in those soft, liquid eyes.

He is leaning forward without really realizing that he's even made a decision, but Elena steps back and he feels the lung compressing, shuddering pressure of the invitation barrier, and looks at her questioningly, embarrassment warring with interest. Embarrassed because he doesn't quite believe that this display is for him, and interest because…well she is beautiful, and he's only a man.

"Elena…"

She holds her index finger to her lips, as if him speaking might rob her of her courage, and his gaze transfers immediately, even though his own reaction irks him; He is not a teenage boy, nor a Salvatore. She shouldn't be able to evoke this sort of reaction from him, but he finds his hands bracing on either side of the door frame as her own stray down her front, tugging at the ends of the little silk belt holding her robe together. He thinks that it looks soft, and then, as it slides down the curve of Elena's shoulders, he ridiculously feels as if maybe he's developed the ability to see the future, because the word soft could not possibly have been applied to anything other than the skin that she is showing him by increments. It's unreasonable that this skin is robbing him of coherent thought, but his protests die on his lips as he takes in the scraps of black lace that ring her pretty hips and barely cover girlish breasts that he suddenly wants to taste. It's an ungentlemanly thought, and at any other time he would be ashamed, but right now he can't take his eyes off of her long enough to even think it. She turns her back to him, and looks over her shoulder coquettishly; the pink silk of her tiny robe slides down her skin to pool at her feet, and he is graced with the feminine curve of her back. His breath hitches again, and he leans closer to the barrier without even realizing that he's doing it, fingers tightening on the wooden door frame as if he's seriously contemplating tearing down this flimsy house to have what's inside of it.

"Elena."

His voice is husky, and she looks over her shoulder, under her lashes, considering him.

"I don't want you to talk. I want you to listen."She tells him in the same voice that Tatia and Katarina would have used to tease him, but somehow she's sincere, and he can see it in those wide eyes. Somehow, that's worse.

"I know you feel badly for what you did."

She tells him as her little hands run up those pretty thighs. It's almost a movement of nervousness, but not quite, or if it is, he's too distracted by the direction of her hands, and that scrap of sinful black lace. Her heart flutters like a little bird, and for an instantaneous, selfish moment, he wants her against a wall, teeth inside of her. Him inside of her. Her hands slide up her hips, over that waspish waist and those little ribs until she reaches her chest, and he's not entirely sure what she's doing for a moment because his blood seems to have migrated further south than his brain, but he figures it out pretty quickly when her bra goes slack from the front and those little black straps fall down the luscious curve of her shoulder.

"I want you to know that…I understand. You did what you had to do. It was for your family…so it's okay, Elijah."

She says his name, and he has to close his eyes, because the sound of it is beautiful. He wants to hear her say it again, and again. Wants to hear it in different tones, and intensities, and wants to memorize the notes of her voice over his name like music. He wants to tell her that she doesn't have to do this, although at this point he's not all that certain whether 'not having to do this' extends to taking off her clothes, or if he simply means the apology. If he were a betting man, he'd probably say the latter, because now that he's seen all of this, he doesn't know if he can go back.

She tosses her bra to the side; he is in awe, because Elena has never been as afraid of him as he would like, but this is an entirely different sort of bravery, and somehow she is forever making him feel human. Even now he shifts, trying to relieve some of the embarrassing pressure in his trousers, because he should be better than this, and somehow he feels quite immature for the way he aches for her. As if the desire to slide into her slick flesh is something that, by rights, should not drive someone like him to distraction.

He is provided a brief respite when she moves to the side, out of his view, and he leans his head forward, trying to collect his thoughts. He has to say something coherent; it's almost a matter of pride at this juncture, but when she returns from retrieving a chair, he disappoints himself again, because all that he can think about are her breasts, those pink nipples, and how he wants them in his mouth.

She sits and crosses her legs, arms extended to support herself with the sides of the chair, and for an absurd moment he thinks that they are about to have a serious conversation; her wantonly half clothed, him lusting after the smooth expanse of flesh before him, and the sounds he might pull from her pretty lips. His illusion is shattered when she tucks her hair behind her ear, fingers straying to the hem of those panties, and underneath it, tickling at forbidden skin that he can't see.

She keeps eye contact with him as she languidly pulls that black lace down past her hips and over those shapely legs; he feels like he must-absolutely must-be shaking with the intensity of it, because suddenly he has no idea how this is going to end, but wants desperately to see the expression on her face when she comes. Even better if he is somehow responsible. He wants to hear his name fall from her lips like a curse. Wants to pull her apart; make her come undone.

She cocks her head to the side, hair pooling over one shoulder, her knees still together as she flicks her flimsy underwear to the side. He has no idea what she's thinking, but can't quite bring himself to complain at this point, because all he can think is that he wants to be through this door. He wants to take what she's offering, wants to be so deep inside of her that she'll never get his memory out of her blood, or his name off of her mind. He wants to ruin her, claim her, make her sing for him.

He swallows, and when he looks at her, he knows his gaze is dark, because she flushes, almost shudders, and if he were an animal, he would be growling.

"Elena, invite me inside."

He feels no shame (even if he ought to) at how deep and rough his voice has gotten; He can't seem to bring himself to the necessary level of concern. For a moment, he thinks she's going to comply, and he stands straighter, shoulders hunched, waiting and predatory, but instead she hooks one slender ankle around the leg of her chair, and follows suit with the other, opening herself before him like a flower. All words, and his ability to call them forth die with that action.

She is wet for him. For this. He can see it from here, smell it on her, hear the thrum of her blood, and feel his vampiric urges trying to surface. His eyes darken minutely, the veins underneath coming into sharp contrast with his flesh. She doesn't appear alarmed (despite the fact that he's sure she's never seen him in this state), but keeps watching him, head canted to one side, a pretty little smile on those pretty little lips as her fingers trail down, fluttering over the swell of her breast. She rubs the pad of her thumb against one of her nipples; once, twice, until it swells and stands to attention, and then she moves on, leaving it wanting in a way that he never would. The door frame creaks under his hands, and he has no doubt that he's going to destroy something quite by accident as he watches her wayward fingers slide down over the flesh at her sides, and her belly, her thighs, down to her knees, but only so that she can spread herself a little wider for him. He realizes at that moment that he has ceased to breathe, and takes a sharp breath of oxygen.

"Elena…"

It is almost a whine (but not quite, thank God), and nearly a warning. He doesn't even realize, and watches her with a hungry gaze as the fingers of one hand slide up the inside of her pretty, tanned thigh; an expanse of flesh that he wants to mark with his wicked fingers. If he were to be honest with himself, there is not an inch of skin belonging to Elena Gillbert that he doesn't want to touch. To taste. To claim. When her pointer finger strays to stroke at that slick, hot flesh between her legs, he lets out a rumbling sound that tears from his throat in frustration, because the things that he would do to her if she would let him inside make her gentle strokes pale in comparison.

"Elijah."

She's teasing him. He should be incensed, but he likes the sound of her saying his name, so he can't quite force himself to be cross with her. She strokes her finger against the little bud of her clitoris, and lets out this tiny mew that has him taking another breath he doesn't need, and makes him ache against the material of his clothing. Which is too tight. Damn his penchant for tailored suits.

She arches her back a little bit, and he absently wonders if she knows that she's doing it, but his attention is too preoccupied to give it as much thought as it probably warrants; is he manipulating him? He doesn't think so, but he has always had a soft spot for Petrova women, and Elena is no exception. His breathing sounds unsteady in his ears-God, how long has it been since he's panted for a woman, he doesn't even know-and he feels ridiculous because everything that he prides himself on is coming undone at this moment, and if he were thinking straight he would definitely be ashamed. He's not, and his thoughts are entirely consumed with getting past this threshold; he is a wild animal pacing at the bars of his cage and growling, though not a sound exits from between his teeth outside of the rasp of his breathing against a throat that feels increasingly raw.

The little minx keeps those dark eyes on his, arching her body so that he can watch as she thumbs a nipple and her clitoris in tandem, fingers moving at a speed that he knows-just KNOWS-is a little bit short of satisfying. His fingers throb, because he wants to take over, wants to stroke that little bud and make her beg for him in throaty moans, all for bringing him to this. He could do it; he knows without ego that experience is on his side, and though he wants to punish her, he cannot deny that he would gain a good deal of satisfaction from pleasing her, if only she would let him.

His eyes watch hungry as she begins to rock her hips against her own hand, breath speeding up, little pink mouth falling open in a manner that is almost lewd. He can see all of it, takes in all of the details; the way her lips and nipples have flushed, the visible beat of her pulse at her neck, the way that her thighs have grown slippery. He wonders if she aches, and his question is answered when she pushes one finger, and then a second inside of herself, letting out a gasp that is almost startled. He inhales roughly, like a much younger man, and looks up again from where his eyes had strayed to her parted thighs. She's still watching him, and suddenly he's quite convinced that he's never been harder in his long, long life.

She moves against her own hands, and she's getting there, but he could do it better; could make her beg for him. He tears at the lintel as she lets out another moan, still looking him straight in the eye. This is not Katarina, who would never allow herself to be this vulnerable. Nor is it Tatia, whose propriety would never have permitted her to consider such a lascivious display. This is Elena, who fascinates him, who challenges him, who frustrates him beyond belief, and she's watching him, letting him see her so intimately that it almost tugs at his long dead heart. If he allowed himself, eh could be done in by this thin slip of a girl. He things he would go willingly.

Her heartbeat ha grown more frantic, and her toes are curling, and he's watching so hungrily that he thinks she should be terrified, but she just smiles, eyes becoming heavy lidded as she concentrates. She still doesn't break his gaze.

"Elena…"

It is a growl. Later he will not be able to justify it, but for now, right now, he watches in something akin to wonder as she shudders, forcing her eyes open. As she moans his name, hot and frantic, like a prayer. Like he is the only man in the world. Like he is all that she can pants for a few moments, as if she's coming down from something intense, and slumps against the back of the chair, smiling at him bonelessly, artlessly. As pleased with herself as a cat with a canary in its mouth. When she speaks, her voice is lazy, rough, and careless, and it might actually be the sexiest thing he's ever heard.

"Elijah…would you like to come in?"

Actions speak louder than words, and before she can even gasp, she is up against the wall, because he is going to show her exactly how excited he is to be inside.


End file.
